Mudminnow River Lost

She was scared, he could tell; by the way she curled in on herself, by the way she made herself so, so small, and she made his heart turn with compassion. "The mountains," he repeated, and he furrowed his brow.

He knew of only one range, and she was very far from them. And they were very far from Easthollow, yet already he shifted his plans. Ever since that day, he travelled with a simple rule: he would have no business with strangers. But children were different. They reminded him of Leta, of Clay, of Newt, of West. If they were in trouble outside of Easthollow, he wanted to know that someone would look out for them, that someone would protect them, and bring them back home. Knowing what kinds of wolves prowled these parts, he had little faith anyone would - but he hoped for this child's family, he could be the one who was different.

"I felt the ground shaking too," he didn't know how to comfort her, couldn't say everything would be okay. He simply didn't know. And he couldn't lie to her. So he deflected, and chose to focus on what he could help her with. "What is your name, little one? Do you and your grandpa have a pack you call home?" It would be much harder to track her family down if she was a vagrant; but if she had a pack nearby, he knew his mother, as travelled as she was, would know where to send them, even if he did not.